Trust
by dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Hiruma thinks about the so-called Devil's Mistake, and wonders when exactly it happened. Not that he'll ever consider it a mistake. T for language.


**Trust**

**Summary:**When did he start trusting his team? Hiruma doesn't know, but he doesn't think it was a mistake. Hell, he knows it wasn't a mistake. T for language.

The Devil's Mistake, Yamamato called it. The mistake of trusting in his team, in the people around in him. The foolish overestimation of their strength and will.

He wasn't going to admit it was a mistake. No way in hell was he going to admit that crap. One, he didn't believe it. Two, even if he had believed it, he would never admit it. Simply because it would have pissed him off way too much to admit anything like that could possibly happen to him. Still, he had to wonder: When the hell had he started trusting his team? When had he developed faith (he almost shuddered at the word) in the fucking brats? When had he started trusting them to have his back? Believing, even against all numerical odds, that they could pull miracles out of thin air with will power?

When, exactly? Damn. He couldn't pin down a freakin date. Something that strange and he couldn't remember when and how it had happened. It was annoying. He could remember every possible play, every play he'd created or read about or seen. But he couldn't remember this. When the hell had everything changed.

Maybe it had been the first time he'd seen the fucking shrimp run. Or the first time he'd seen the damn monkey chase a ball. His ball. A pass he'd thrown. When he realized he'd finally found the raw talent he'd been looking for. He'd almost lost hope, until they'd begun to gather around him. Hell, he'd even gotten himself a damn manager to share his workload. A manager who was fun, even. Fun to tease, fun to work with, willing to challenge him or support him as needed.

Maybe it had been their first miracle comeback against the Chameleons. The combination of shock victory, and unprecedented publicity. It lit a fire in his blood, that this was truly what he was born to do. Not that he'd doubted it, but that victory was still sweet. Not only the win against odds no one would have bet on, but the cheering. It was the first time he could remember being cheered for. Screamed at, or about, certainly. Feared? Hell yes. Respected...it was different. For once it wasn't his guns or his little black book, but his skills and passion. Not that the guns and grenades and blackmail weren't fun, but...this was a whole different thrill.

He remembered the wild, calculated thrill of the games against the Sphinx and the Aliens. The pounding joy of plans coming to fruition, plays completed as he knew they should be. Watching Kurita and the 'Huh' Brothers send the Sphinx Blue Sky. Monta defeating the 'Chariot Bump'. Watching the shrimp, his Eyeshield 21, chase down and match the Panther of America. Five years of practice had matured him somewhat as a quarterback, but now he got to learn, to grow, to get even better. It was an intellectual and physical challenge like nothing he'd ever faced before. And he saw the others growing too, as he'd known they must.

He knew that, if asked, Doburoku would have said it was on the Death March. And, though he would never, ever admit it out loud...the march from hell did have a lot of moments that inspired that odd, proud feeling in him.

He remembered watching Yukimitsu and Monta run the routes until they could do it in their sleep. Well, it had been fun as hell shooting at them all day long, but the stamina that even fucking baldy had developed was impressive. He'd thought for sure that most of them would drop, and baldy would be the first. But the guy held on, even re-ran the part that the shrimp carried him on, just to prove his worth. It wasn't like the tower climb, where he'd taken pity on the guy.

And Taki. Idiot had shown up halfway through. And he was an idiot, and damned annoying with that spin of his, or whatever the hell it was. But he was a natural tight end, and he pissed off the others so much they forgot their exhaustion and pushed on. Even without the natural skill he'd shown, his effect on the others would have been worth it. The skill just kept him from shooting the man once they made it.

The last day stood out most clearly. Stuck in a damn mud-hole, with the damn truck sinking into it. Watching the miracle of teamwork as everyone, not just his linemen, got together and pushed. Pushed for all they were worth. He knew the Death March built stamina and strength and technique, but teamwork? But there it had been, every single one of his little band, working together on an impossible task. Even the girls had gotten into it, shouting chants from the sidelines. Hell, if it hadn't been for the fact that the rest of them would have died of shock, he'd have gone into the mud himself. But he didn't want to replace the whole damn team because they died of heart attacks, so he'd stuck to watching from the sidelines. He started the chant to get them focused, then stayed quiet. He hadn't even shot at them. He hadn't wanted to break the mood, the utter _unity_ that linked them together, forging a team from what had been a group of solitary individuals. And, in a situation where he could claim drugs or a concussion, he might even admit that he'd been impressed, and pleased, when they'd succeeded. Almost as impressed and pleased as when Doburoku offered them a free ride on the last five miles, and every single one of them had turned him down cold. And finished the damn March to boot.

If forced, under pain of death or sugar overdose, he might admit to thinking, at that moment, that he'd found a team who could work miracles for him, and for each other. That it might have been when they parked the mud-covered truck on the Strip, that he first believed his team really could do anything, and everything, that he could ask of them. Even take on the best teams in the world, new and raw as they were. Of course, he would also claim that he had been tired out after running 2000 kilometers dressed in all black and carrying a gun and ammunition. Never mind all the shooting, and possibility of heat stroke. He would naturally claim heat stroke for the fact that he'd passed out cold on a hotel bed an hour later, and that any such thoughts had ever crossed his mind.

Kurita, perhaps knew him best. If he'd ever let anyone ask the fat porker what _he_ thought, Kurita would no doubt claim his trust had emerged from Musashi's return. Losing Musashi had been a blow, that was true. It had pissed him off. And it had been terrible, waiting for the man to return, because he damn well refused to take a substitute. Musashi was the best, they'd made a promise together, and it would be Musashi or no one on his team. Kurita knew it. Just as he knew exactly how many boxes and lockers he'd kicked through in his fits of rage, that he'd lost the best kicker in Japan (and his friend) to a force of nature and family duties. Kurita would definitely say his faith was born of Musashi's return.

Him, as far as he was concerned, really, it was a matter of physical evidence. Game after game after game of impossible saves and evolution on the field. Match after match of watching his players surpass themselves, and everyone else. Sena's Devil bat Ghost, then Devil Light Hurricane, then others. Monta and his Devil Backfire. Kurita's strength. Yukimitsu and Ishimaru's evolution into first class feinters and receivers. The 'Huh' Brothers becoming powerful linemen. Defeating the Amino Cyborgs, the Chameleons, the Ojou White Knights, and all the others. Even Shinryuuji, thought to be untouchable. He'd seen his team pull off miracles. Why the hell shouldn't he believe they could do it again?

Of course, he knew Yamamoto would say that the Alexanders were in a whole different class. And they were, really. The elite of every school that would consider giving up a player. And the fucking manager, if she was being annoying (which was usually) would talk about how faith and trust weren't about physical evidence. Also true. Physical evidence and odds said they were screwed, and he still didn't believe it.

When did he decide to believe in miracles? In his team? In the fucking chibi, and monkey boy, and the porker? And the old man kicker, and the 'Huh' brothers? When was it he'd turned his back to them, and known that even then, he wasn't going to fall?

Well the game against the Scorpion had been a good indicator. Left them alone for the entire first quarter of the game, and they'd managed. But...if he had to say it...in the back of his mind...well, if he damn well had to say it, he'd put his money one place. The game against the Hakushuu Dinosaurs.

He _had_ fallen then. He remembered it, with such clarity that his arm still ached (though he told himself it was just that he hadn't really finished healing). But he remembered with terrible, nightmare clarity, Gaou's body slamming into his, the crushing grip on his arms, and the not-quite audible snap as his right arm broke. Then agony, agony so great he'd barely maintained consciousness. Torment, mind and body, so terrible he'd asked Doburoku to cover his face, so that no one could see him break. Not that he thought there was anyone who hadn't guessed, but he would not permit anyone to see him so vulnerable. He hadn't wanted to give his opponents the victory, nor deliver the blow to his team and leave them weakened. He hadn't wanted to see his team, and his dream, break as his arm had. Bad enough to hear them. But... that wasn't what he'd heard.

Juumonji, bending over him, and whispering quietly in his ear. _'Don't __fucking __worry. __You __just __lay __there, __and __we'll __take __it __from __here. __You __dragged __us __into __this, __and __now __we'll __return __the __favor. __Even __if __we __have __to __tie __a __rope __around __your __neck __and __drag __you, __we'll __take __you __to __the __Christmas __Bowl.'_

The sound of Marco asking for their surrender, and his team's roaring response. _'We __Will...Kill __Them! __Crush __Them!__Ya-Ha!'_

Sena, taking his place, the last of the powerful potential he'd seen in the boy flowering slowly into life. Not enough, of course, not against Marco. Not enough to win, but it steadied them. The secondary control tower he'd hoped for, bursting to life and holding it's own. Even through his suffering, it had been enough to make him laugh.

The roar of the crowd and the team as Kurita rebounded. As the strength he'd known that fat porker of a pacifist harbored finally exploded into motion, challenging Gaou and the rest of the Dinosaurs, protecting Sena and his team. Damn, if he'd known it would take his falling to awaken the fat bastard, he'd have let the fucking White Knights have him. Would have been easier. Then again...with Shin's Trident Tackle...maybe not. But he didn't really give a damn. It had happened, finally.

Even the fucking manager, in her own way. She'd been dead set against his going back to the field. Honestly, if she hadn't been getting in his way, he'd have been almost touched that she cared enough to try and prevent him from returning. He'd had to invoke the 'three questions' promise, and even then, she'd tried to get around it. But in the end, she'd taped him up so he could get at least one pass out of his broken arm, and helped him with his uniform. He could still remember the feel of her hands, tying the bandages, slipping his helmet over his head. Her voice asking if he wanted something to dull the pain. He'd said no, because he needed to be focused and able to feel everything that happened. He sure as hell hadn't wanted to fumble a throw or a play because he misjudged.

And then...it was the first thing he really classed as something like a miracle. His team had rallied around him. He'd bought them hope with his tortured body, with the breaking of his bones and the agony that threatened to take him down. With his refusal to let it break him. And them...they'd become his shields, his weapons. Every time Marco sent someone after him, tried to exploit his weakness, they were there. Tackling the ball. Charging headlong into the fray for him. For him. For the dream he had dragged them into. Monta defeated the Petra Claw, even against the erratic, off-target pass he'd thrown. Sena took down Marco, performing a Vertical Devil Light Hurricane, which he had to admit even he hadn't thought of. Kurita pushed back Gaou.

He hadn't meant to carry the last play, until he'd seen Sena's arms, injured by Gaou and Marco. Seen that one flash of understanding on his running back's face and known. He hadn't thought, until he began to run, that he could take it. But he had. Fuck, it had hurt. But his team gave him a wall, and Kurita gave him his final opening. And as the pain finally dropped him to his knees, his body giving out under the torment and strain, he'd fallen across the goal line. He'd heard victory declared, and all the torture of the previous ten minutes had been absolutely worth it.

He remembered shouts of victory. Then his team lifting them. He'd been about ready to shoot them, or threaten them with it at least, when they'd lifted him in a standard victory carry. Juumonji and Musashi holding him, while Kurita braced him gently from behind, and Musashi whispered to him. _'We __got __it, __you __crazy __sonofabitch. __We __got __it. __Just __let __go.'_ Watching Sena being carried as well, so no one noticed if he slumped just the tiniest bit. Preserving his dignity to the end, until he could finally collapse in privacy. He remembered. Hands holding him (he thought it was Kurita, who the hell else was that fucking big) and then a stretcher, as his team carried him off the field of victory. And none of them, not one, had ever, ever implied that he'd done anything other than idly stroll out and take himself to the doctor. Of course, he'd shoot them if they did, but...they didn't speak.

Yep. That was where he'd pin his money, if he had to. He had trust in his team, because they hadn't failed him, even at the worst. Screw the fucking bastard with his 'absolute predictions'. And his opinion of the 'Devil's Mistake'. There was no damn mistake about it. He could trust this team with the devil's miracles, with the impossible. And as long as he could stand, even if it was on one foot with both arms broken and trying to catch the damn ball in his teeth...he'd never betray their trust in him.

And that, he was willing to bet, was one thing the Alexanders didn't have. He didn't need the chibi defending him, vowing to uphold the trust he'd given. His faith wasn't that easily won or lost.

He rallied his team. It was time for a Devil's Miracle. Time to kick the Emperor's ass.


End file.
